Breathless
by asterouslywhelming
Summary: Dick's shoulders jerked with breathless sobs. Not a sound escaped his lips. He didn't want Bruce to hear him, didn't want his sympathy, his attempt at comforting words. Nothing could fix the gaping hole that had been viciously tore through Dick's chest.
1. Chapter 1: Breathless

This is my first ever story published on the internet...

I don't own anything.

Warning: This story is rated PG-15 because of mature themes, descriptive physical harm, unhappy endings, ignorant people, and the incessant useage of an awful slur.

Have at it:

Dick lifted the collar of his tee shirt and roughly scrubbed away the sweat streaming down his cheeks - he refused to admit to himself that the salty streams of liquid were his tears. He yanked his shaking fingers harshly through his hair, trying in vain to stop the digits from trembling. His chest tightened, his lungs screaming. He was hyperventilating, his breaths erratic but shallow, effectively depriving his body of oxygen.

_You don't deserve to be on this team. _

Dick heaved out an involuntary heavy sob, leaving him breathless. His chest ached, and not because of the lack of oxygen. His skin, covered in a thick sheen of cold sweat, felt like it was blanketed in a sheet of ice, the chill cutting into his bones, yet his face was so incredibly hot. Water blurred his vision again. He sucked in a large gasp of air, and then his lungs forgot how to function, forgot how to expand, forgot how to suck in air.

_You know what? Just go._

Dick's knees buckled, his legs shaking like Jell-O during an earthquake. He caught the edge of the bathroom sink, supporting his weight with his palms. His arms vibrated, his elbows quivering even though the joints were locked. His fingers curled around the edge of the sink and gripped the porcelain so tightly his fingers turned white.

_Everyone would be so much better off without you._

Dick's shoulders jerked, his chest convulsing with silent, breathless sobs. Not a sound escaped his pale lips. He didn't want Alfred or Bruce to hear him. He didn't want their sympathy, their attempt at comforting words. Nothing could fix the gaping hole that had been viciously torn from his chest.

_I hope you burn in Hell._

Gray-blue eyes lifted, took in the pathetic sight that reflected back at him in the mirror. Tangled and mussed onyx hair, knotted and unkempt. Pallid skin even paler, resembling a sickeningly sallow shade of yellow, the blood leached from his face. Glistening liquid lines ran from his eyes to his jaw, wet splatters coloring his shirt, dotting the sink. Blood stained his bottom lip ruby red from where he had bitten it too hard. His ocean eyes were glinting, swimming with tears. The tiny red veins in his eyes were irritated and swollen, the whites of his eyes a shocking and vivid red. His eyelids were swollen, deep violet bags underneath his lashes, giving the impression that his eyes were drooping at the corners, sinking deep into his face.

_Faggot._

Dick cringed, the spastic movement triggering convulsing sobs that shook his entire body. His lungs screamed, his fingertips and toes going numb from oxygen deprivation. His heart beat irregularly, speeding up and slowing down at random. His ribcage seemed to tighten under his skin, constricting his heart, shortening the beats of the organ. His hands, slick with sweat, slipped from the porcelain sink. Dick, unprepared and unable to catch himself, collapsed to the tile floor.

He leaned his back against the side of the bathtub, pulling his limp legs to his chest, wrapping his shaking arms around his knees. He pressed his forehead against his knee, tears flowing rapidly from his sealed eyelids. His head pounded, a rhythmic thrumming the only sound reaching his ears. Dick lifted his arms, scraping his fingers through his hair, digging his fingernails into his scalp, pressing, drawing blood, his mouth agape in a silent scream that refused to be voiced.

Sobs jerked his shoulders, his nails stung his scalp, but not a sound escaped his pale lips.

_Faggot._

He was supposed to understand. He was supposed to be supportive. He was supposed to be the rock that held him in place while his classmates called him degrading names. He was supposed to be the duct tape that kept the pieces of his heart intact when Bruce yelled his disapproval. He was supposed to be his _best_. _Friend_.

_Faggot, faggot, faggot. Burn in Hell. Better off without you. Just go._

Dick squeezed his eyes shut tighter, dug his fingernails in farther, shook his head. Trying in vain to rid his mind of the cruel words. The words that he had feared. That he had expected. That he had hoped would never be said. That had been voiced by his best friend. The words that had killed him.

_Get your filthy faggot hands away from me!_

Dick took a deep breath - lungs singing at the sudden oxygen - and pried his hands away from his stinging scalp, lifting his head. His sobs halted, his face relaxing. The tears continued to poor from the corners of his eyes. Dick pushed himself shakily to his feet, wavering slightly. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Something akin to fear bubbled in his throat as he gripped his razor tightly. The trembling in his fingertips increased greatly as he dismantled the razor, picking up one of the thin blades and disposing of the rest. The sharp blade sliced his fingertips as he fumbled with it, holding out his left forearm. The silver razorblade slick with his blood, he pressed the edge to the pale skin of his forearm, near the crook of his elbow.

The fear diminished as he watched the burgundy bead of blood sprout from underneath the point of the blade.

_Please, God, _he begged. _Please let this make me forget._

Dick dragged the blade towards his chest, across his forearm, wincing at the white-hot pain the action caused. Dick heaved out a quivering sigh, sucked in another breath, as he carved the letter _F_ into the pale skin near his elbow.

He had hoped the physical pain would take his mind off of the mental anguish. He had hoped that causing his body harm would keep his thoughts away from the agony of his former best friend's actions. Away from the self-deprecation. Away from the deep shame and guilt. That he couldn't keep it a secret. That he couldn't change. That he didn't have the _power_ to change himself.

But the fire lacing through his veins with every slice of the weapon only caused the pain in his heart to double.

A whimpered sob finally bubbled from his throat as he set the blade down, gazing at the mangled and bloody mess that was formerly his forearm. Thin but deep shining red cuts twisted and turned on his skin, forming the letters, _F-A-G-G-O-T_.

_Faggot, faggot, faggot._

One pain-filled sound allowed, the others couldn't be denied the privilege of escaping his lips. He moaned, sobbed, his voice cracking and quivering. Dick's vision swam, black spots dancing over his line-of-sight because of the blood loss. He swayed violently, light-headed.

Dick shook the dizziness from his head and pressed the razorblade to the inside of his wrist, pushing down harder than he had before, an instant gush of blood dripping down his wrist, his fingers, and into the bathtub. His blood stained the vivid white of the tub a dark mahogany.

With quivering and burgundy-tainted fingertips, Dick turned on the water, watching, sickly fascinated at the sight of the water diluting the rich red, mesmerized by the sight of red drops of his life swirled around the drain before finally being sucked from his eyes. The gruesome picture made his stomach turn, made his eyes water and burn with the desire to turn away.

But he couldn't.

He just couldn't.

It was sick. It was wrong. It went against everything he had ever been taught; by his parents, and by Bruce.

But he couldn't _stop_.

Dick pressed the blade to his wrist again, directly below the cut he had just made. But his fingers went numb, followed in close precision by his wrists, his arms, and his legs. The bloody blade slipped through his fingers as they went lax, clattering to the bottom of the tub. Dick swayed, fell forward, falling into the tub, hitting his left temple hard against the water spout.

Someone knocked hard and quick against the locked bathroom door. "Richard?" Bruce bellowed through the thick wood, voice colored with concern. "Richard, are you alright?"

Dick laughed breathlessly, barely a whisper emerging from his throat.

He was just peachy.

"Richard, open the door," Bruce demanded.

And suddenly there was nothing funny about it. Dick panicked. He couldn't feel his limbs. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. He felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Like a car was parked on his face. He felt like he was suffocating and drowning simultaneously. He could hear his slowing heartbeat thrum in his ears, the sounds drowning out his father's desperate voice.

_Thud-thud… Thud-thud…_

"If you don't open this door by the count of three, I'm knocking it down," Bruce yelled, his voice creeping higher and higher as the worry at his only son's lack of response mounted.

_Thud… Thud…_

Dick's eyes rolled back into his head only milliseconds before the bathroom door crashed in.

"_Pl-please don't h-hate me for this," Dick begs, his voice shaking, cracking._

_Wally laughs, placing a comforting hand on the smaller boy's shoulder. "I could never hate you, Dick. You know that," Wally says gently, smiling widely, attempting to calm the boy down. Dick has no need to be so fearful of Wally's reaction. Nothing he said could change the way Wally feels about the little teenager._

"_Y-you sure?" Dick whimpers. "Pr-promise? Promise, no m-matter what, you'll always b-be my best fr-friend?"_

_Wally laughs again._

"_Promise."_

_Dick takes a shuddered breath, closes his eyes behind his dark sunglasses._

"_Wally…" he begins, voice faltering, barely above a whisper. "I'm gay."  
><em>

I feel awful. Please don't be too harsh on me..


	2. Chapter 2: Broken

**This is my second story posted on the Internet, the sequel to "Breathless". Rated as it is for suicide, and the use of an awful slur. Thanks for all the reviews of "Breathless". They inspired me.(: **

**Sorry if this isn't as good as the first one. I apologize to all of you that have already read this story. I just wanted to make it easier for myself to upload the next story, and since all the sequels are based off of Breathless, I decided to just put it all in one. I am working on a third.(:**

**Have at it:**

Bruce had only been at this for minutes.

It felt like hours. Days.

Days since he had knocked down the door. Days since he had sprinted into the room. Days since he had been scarred for life.

When in reality, only minutes had gone by.

His hands throbbed, his triceps and pectorals ached, bunched, stiffened, screamed and pleaded with him to stop. But he couldn't. He couldn't give up. Couldn't accept this outcome. Couldn't _live_ with it.

Bruce cringed at the thought.

He couldn't give up. Not now. Not when his son, his partner, his _world_ had just given up everything.

His hands felt sticky, slippery against the boy's soaked tee shirt. Bruce's eyes were shut, only thin layers of skin separating his vision and the grotesquely horrific sight before him. Only thin layers of skin separated him from the slick, enticing edge of insanity. Sweat coated his face, his neck, despite how cold the bathroom felt. The air was thick, heavy, pressing in on all sides.

_Suffocating him_.

Harsh, florescent light illuminated his eyelids a dull red.

_Red_.

The sight of deep red splatters of liquid contrasting sharply with the stark white bathtub they landed in flashed rapidly behind Bruce's eyelids. The sudden image vanished as quickly as it appeared, frozen before Bruce's eyes for less than a nanosecond. But that nanosecond was enough to take his breath away. For his heartbeat to increase dramatically.

The pungent stench of blood stung Bruce's nostrils. The offensive odor was metallic, almost electric, heavy and crackling with energy. Strong enough to leave the sharp, tangy taste of metal on Bruce's tongue.

Metal and blood.

_Metal and blood._

That was what fear tasted like.

He knew.

He had tasted it when he had heard the gunshots that had murdered his parents.

Bruce's stomach tightened, rolled. _He was going to be sick. _The muscle under his right eye twitched, jerked rapidly. His heart slammed against his ribcage erratically, trying to force its way out of his chest. His teeth clenched, biting down so hard he was genuinely surprised they didn't crack under the pressure. His ears rang, his head swam, colors mixing together as his vision swirled. The entire contents of his life had just been uprooted, shaken like the faux snow flakes in a snow globe.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred ran into the room to find the source of the noises. Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred froze in the doorway, gasped, _choked_. Bruce heard very clearly when Alfred collapsed to the ground, deep, trembling sobs wrenching themselves from the old man's throat.

But he didn't pause, didn't hesitate.

In this situation, hesitation was synonymous with death.

His hands picked up speed, his desperation clear in the jerky action.

Bruce leaned forward slightly, taking a deep, shuddered breath, trying in vain to bite back the nausea. The soft sound of fabric rustling reverberated around his eardrums over the echoing ring. Bruce jumped in surprise as Alfred placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

_Warm_. Bruce hadn't realized just how _cold_ he was. His blood was like ice through his veins. He shivered, jerked his shoulder out from underneath Alfred's hand harshly without ceasing the rhythmic pulses of his hands.

_Don't touch me_, he wanted to say. Shout. He wanted to, but he _couldn't_. His throat was closed, his vocal chords crushed by the unrelenting and constricting grip that fearful grief clasped his neck with. His entire body trembled, quivered. The corners of his eyes began to sting, filling with moisture.

"Master Bruce," Alfred whispered. "You have to stop. It's not going to help him now."

"No," he gasped. He reeled back, startled. Was that really his voice? So scratchy, raw, _broken_. Hoarse to the point that he didn't recognize it anymore.

Bruce's elbows buckled, his entire body swaying dangerously. Stop? Stop, because it wasn't helping? His son. His partner. His _everything_.

_Gone_. _Not helping_.

No.

_No, no, no_.

_This couldn't be happening_.

This was just the affect of a new fear gas Scarecrow had invented. He was hallucinating. He would wake up soon. He would wake up, and Richard would be fine. Dick would be there to comfort him. To laugh that ghostly cackle Bruce secretly loved so much when he told the boy his fears. To help him take down Penguin or the Joker.

_This couldn't be real_.

Dick would be fine when he opened his eyes. _He had to be_.

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut tighter, thick and heavy tears escaping. Counted to three. Prayed to whoever was listening. _Please let him be alright. Please let this be a dream. A horrible, horrible dream_.

But when he opened his eyes, bile rose in his throat as his stomach attempted a complex acrobatic maneuver, and was tied in a knot instead.

_No_.

He was _broken_.

That was the only way to describe what was happening to him.

He had been pushed to far, and now he was beyond repair. He could survive the deaths of his parents. He could survive a life lacking love. He could survive the cut-off from all emotion necessary to becoming Batman. But this? No. No one could survive this. He was broken. Beyond repair.

Beyond _hope_.

Dark blue eyes he would forever associate with the ocean stared blankly past Bruce's face. Fixed on nothing. _Empty_. Normally pale skin was bone white, leached of all color. Thick lines of tears that had long since dried on sunken cheeks winked occasionally up at Bruce under the harsh, florescent light. Dark black locks contrasted sharply against the pallid skin, damp and sticking to the forehead it flopped on. His clothes were soaked, plastered to the boy's body. A wide pool of water coated the floor of the bathroom, deep ruby swirls slowly spinning through the otherwise clear liquid.

Richard's left arm was outstretched, his fingers falling open lifelessly. Thick, burgundy blood covered his arm, not a glimmer of white skin breaking through. But through the heavy sheet of red, deep, almost black lines shone through. Lines that twisted and twined to form one word.

One single word that shattered the infinitesimal, unsteady remainder of Bruce's mind that clung to sanity.

_Faggot_.

Convulsing sobs shook his entire body, jerked his shoulders violently. Tears formed a blurring film over his line of sight. Bruce closed his eyes again, and continued pushing his hands into Richard's unmoving chest. But he couldn't remove the horrific image from his thoughts. No matter how much he wanted to. He pressed his trembling lips to Richard's cold, pale ones, blew air into his son's lungs.

The boy's organs refused to function.

The boy's heart refused to restart.

Shaking his head, Bruce lifted his aching hands back to the center of Richard's chest. Pressed again, the pace faster, more desperate. This had to work._ Please, let this work_.

"Please, please, please," he whispered under his breath, nearly inaudibly. "You can't leave me here. You can't do this to me."

But the pleas fell on deaf ears. Ears that couldn't hear anymore. No longer functioning ears that accompanied a no longer functioning body. Alfred grabbed Bruce's shoulders, tugged him away. "Stop," the old man commanded gently. "You need to stop now, Master Bruce."

Bruce's head dropped, violent sobs wracking his shoulders. His hands fluttered, lingered, over the cold, still chest for a fraction longer before falling uselessly into his lap. He was helpless. It was hopeless.

He was gone.

Richard was _gone_.

_And there was nothing more he could do_.

Bruce fell back limply into Alfred's arms. Loud, gasping cries wrenched themselves from deep within Bruce's chest, his entire body trembling so hard it was practically vibrating. His body was numb, his mind shattered into a million tiny pieces that would never fit together perfectly again. A gaping hole had just been torn out of his life, out of his chest. A gaping hole where his son should have been.

Bruce was broken.

And there was no hope of repair.


End file.
